


Gary Crimble, Dear Rudolph

by VasaliaTheWise



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VasaliaTheWise/pseuds/VasaliaTheWise
Summary: You and George spend your first holidays as a married couple...but on your own terms
Relationships: George Harrison/Reader
Kudos: 3





	Gary Crimble, Dear Rudolph

“Gary Crimble, Y/N!”

“Crimble, George!” you answered back.

The door opened and let in a brush of freezing wind despite the warmth of the stove you stood next to.

“What’s that smell? Are you making cookies?” a familiar Scouse with a slightly nasal twang asked.

But to you, it was the softest and most comforting sound in all the world. He gave a good, loud whiff in his nostrils and released out an “oooooooo.”

Looking back, you tried to clean off the dusty flour that got on your face.

“Yes George! It is! I thought I might make some cookies for you so you could have some once you came home! Not ready yet-still baking!” you said, gesturing to the hot oven as the timer clicked away in tiny tick, tick, ticks.

He wrapped his arms around you. You could feel and smell the snow from his dark hair and his cold cheeks.

He was always so soft. It had been a few months until you both said ‘til death do you part. There would be years to come. And that was if you were lucky. But he always hugged and cuddled you first, clinging like a koala.  
“That’s so sweet of you, me bird…” he cooed. He turned from you to squat down and stare at the batch in the oven.  
“They aren’t ready yet! And what if they taste bad!” you insist, pulling him back to his feet.  
“Doesn’t matter! They’re bloody Christmas cookies, there has to be a bit of good in them. If not…there’s ice cream in the freezer!” he answered with a shrug.

Letting out a laugh, you were glad to spend Christmas with such a goofball.

He gave you a big kiss on the cheek as the radio began to play a third rendition of Bring Crosby. With bemusement, you noted his black sweater had white, dusty powder on it.

“It’s really coming down, isn’t it?”

“Yes, tomorrow we got that whole party-imagine that! Takin’ people from their families on Christmas Day to dress in suits and sip champagne…” he sighed.

“There will be dancing….and everyone’s coming. Ringo’ll be late, but he promised to bring us his mum’s cake! Besides, it’s an event. Will be good for the band. Eppy begged us.” you replied with a shrug.

A whole evening to be married and mature adults. And on Christmas.

He went over to the refrigerator and got the tub of ice cream. Lounging down next to him, you got a white blanket from the couch for warmth. Both of you indulged in spoonfuls as you waited on the cookies to finish baking while watching Christmas specials.

“Huh, we’ve been eating gallons of ice cream despite the cold weather…” you noted.

He shook his head, “doesn’t matter! Sweet stuff is sweet stuff, eh? Are you ready for the Christmas gathering? The lad’sll be there. And we’ll be…we’ll be for real, wont’ we…”

Shyly, he looked down at the shiny, silver ring on his right hand. You looked at the shiny ring on your own.

“Well…it’s a lot…I’m just…oh, George, I don’t know what to say…I’m just…happy…”

He smiled, taking you in. The fireside was blazing and you admired his handsome face with the lights.

“Then you don’t ‘ave to say a word. You just have to kiss me..”

You gave him a deep kiss, tasting the ice cream in his breath. He kissed back. He pushed forward. Until you lied down on the couch and he hovered over you. Making out passionately as you held each other.

“Mmph, I could take you here on the couch…” he mumbled.

But as his hand moved down to unzip his pants the timer went off and declared the cookies ready. The two of you laughed it off.

“Well, something else beat us!” you joked as you got up and released them from the oven, the vanilla smell wafting around the house.

A picture of you in your wedding dress and George in a tux looking insanely handsome watched you as you ate your sweets before your Christmas Eve dinner. There was one photo of an inebriated Paul who was so overjoyed he began to kiss your cheek, overcome with joy. George and you were laughing in it. That one stood on a desk in your shared room as you dried your hair from the shower and changed into your pajamas.

“Ey…see that picture of Paul? Remember when ‘e did that?” he recalled with a laugh.

Both of you settled into your bed. You discussed various memories.

“What were we even doing last Christmas eve?” you mused. The wind picked up and howled against the window. Snuggling into your blanket, you both turned around to look at each other.

“The tv show…remember? They asked us to say something and…”

Both of you burst into giggles.

“Gary Crimble to you!” both of you sang.

You laughed hard, pulling him into your chest as he shook with guffawing at the memory.

“And John he said…he really said ‘Merry Rudolph!’”

Calming down, you settled into each others arms with slower, slower breaths.

“We’ll need to get sleep for that party tomorrow…lots of other couples and the lads and their girls…we’ll…we’ll need to be ready…” you muttered. 

Reaching over, you turned off the lights.

George was already half asleep, but you felt him nod in agreement.

The Christmas party was lovely. Surprisingly. Despite your tiredness from the sea of relatives and in-laws and calls and cards and presents. Once you entered in your lovely red dress and George in his suit, John embraced you both merrily.

“Come on! We got the piano!” he said, pulling through the mansion with it’s white ceilings and diamond chandeliers as old men smoked cigars.

Paul was at the piano playing away. He looked at you both with a wink and the other lads and their own wives gave you hugs and cheek kisses. Ringo even handed a bit of Tupperware with small Santa Clauses all over it and his mothers buttercream cake inside.

You sang Christmas carols joyfully. Sometimes off-key. Sometimes distracted by some guest who wanted to talk to a Beatle, any of them. But Paul kept getting out hymn after Santa Clause dance after waltz after winter ballad. You felt yourself smiling and half-hugging George. Ignoring the finery and snobbery outside the doors.

“Deeeeck the halls with boughs of holly  
Fa la la la la laaaaa la la la laaaaa!  
Tis the season to be jolly!  
Fa la la la laaaaa la la la lalaaaaa!”  
You and George sang at the top f your lungs. Though sometimes he changed the words to make you laugh.

“Ah-hem.”

Turning around, Eppy had folded his arms and was tapping his foot.

“Party. Lads. Now.” He ordered, gesturing forward. 

With a sigh, the piano was closed, and you trotted out like soldiers.

As you entered the ballroom, there were a bunch of small gift bags everyone got. Inside there were candy canes. Both you and George enjoyed chewing on yours, savoring the minty, sweet flavor and making the odd small talk with a stranger in pearls.

George eventually bit his down until it was a sharp point. His dark eyes twinkled.

“A ha! Y/N! En garde!”

He waved the sharp end at you. He then set his foot wide and bent one knee. 

He legs stood out in second position with the other arm over his head.

“Oh, no you don’t!” you cried, waving your candy cane back.

You parryed and sashayed across your home. Laughing the whole time. Though you felt a few eyes wander your way and a few whispers. The edge of your eye noticed them. Their frowns were not encouraging from their fur-decked shoulders. 

Was this a bad impression? What do mature, married adults do anyway?  
But it all melted as George hugged you and he let out his laughter, a deep and genuine as the sound of bells. It drowned the invisible but present disapproval. 

“Ah-hah! Y/N, my dear, that was incredible! I love ya so much!”

He gave you a big kiss on the cheek and your worries melted away.

Both of you got to dance some, a slight waltz to a “fancier” piano and some little trots while holding each other. Just glad to move and touch each other.

“I’m starving, Y/N…”

“You’re always hungry, George!”

“Doesn’t matter! Let’s get to the food- if they’re posh, their food’s got to be good!”

Both of you gathered the sea of fur and silk to the buffet. But as George made his plate, even he made a snarl at what was below. And he had the appetite of a horse.

“Let’s just give it a bite…” you suggested with a smile.

It was every bit as bland as it looked. You heard people discussing flavors as they swirled their wines.

You looked at George and he seemed to look a little pale. You leaned over and began to whisper over your wine glass into his ear.

“Look’s like Eppy is gone…and we’ve been here, what-an hour and a half! Isn’t that enough of the band? Besides…you’re a part of the bloody Beatles. You aren’t struggling to be heard anymore…George…we’ve sang carols and danced and said our hellos and tried the food…let’s eat at home, shall we?”

He nodded promptly.

He grabbed your hand as you dodged the falling snow outside. Both of you picked up your pace with the freezing weather to the car to head home. Both of you laughing as you took in the fresh, icy air and dodging any stray paparazzi wanting a picture of George to feed the press.

But it didn’t matter if he was a prince or some street guitarist. He was your man. Your love. And your George. 

As you headed home, both of you blasted the radio to belt more songs at the top of your lungs. Rushing inside, George turned on the fireplace and rubbed his hands over it. You set up the frying pan and put tomato soup on the stove next to it. George began to butter pieces of bread and sprinkle cheese on it, still in his nice suit.

“I got it, sweetheart. You can get into jammies,” he said.

Once you changed, he ran up as you added the last touches to the soup with bits of spice here and there, stirring it until it was hot.

He ran up and return in red and white striped pajamas. As the soup and grilled cheese came to it’s delicious fruition, you both ate and smiled. He wiped cheese from the corner of your mouth. The tree sparkled in joy in the corner. Once you finished your plates and moved onto the cake for dessert, you paused before you dug your fork in.

“George…are we completely adults now? I mean, we’re married and all. That should be mature enough. Yet here we are here and not at the party. Shouldn’t we spend a real married Christmas back there?”

He shook his head. Grinning, you leaned forward and hugged him as he kissed the side of your head.  
“’Oo bloody cares! If this is what a married Christmas looks like…I’ll settle for more.”

“Merry Rudolph, George.”

“Merry Rudolph, Y/N.”


End file.
